The Precipice People
The Precipice People by Megan Bledsoe is a near-future dystopian thriller about the collapse of control and the awakening of human sovereignty.
The High States once promised a world where anyone could pursue their dreams. Now a ruthless shift in policy morphs those dreams into nightmares.
The murder of a local woman during a state-sanctioned enforcement action leaves the country baffled. Lies replace the truth. Safe zones promise a trap. And public service programs mask a calculated plan to escalate control—and eradicate freedom.
The citizens stand at their breaking point: A boy with a yellow bike whose curiosity makes him a target. A state agent with shifting orders and a conscience that haunts his soul. A mother who’s certain her family’s status means all her loved ones are safe.
The fate of their lives and of their nation stands perilously on a precipice that’s crumbling beneath their feet. Surviving the fall will depend on how each of them answers one question:
When do you say goodbye to a dying way of life?
Experience the first stage of replacing an unraveling world in THE PRECIPICE PEOPLE—a near-future dystopian thriller for fans of 1984 who wish it had ended another way. Book One of The Epoch Rite of Passage Trilogy.
Arriving October 2026.
Ebook Available for Preorder Now.
(Hardcover option coming soon.)
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[↓ Read the first chapter]
Books in the Trilogy
Looking for something to read while you wait?
The Epoch Rite of Passage trilogy was born from my exploration of the collective, three-stage “Rite of Passage” we all seem to be going through. I’ve curated a list of books that speak to these three stages. It’s a list of essential dystopian satirical reads I’m calling The Sovereignty Library. If you’re ready—or want to be ready—to move beyond the chaos and explore the themes that can help us build a new future, I’d love to share it with you.
The Precipice People – Sample Chapter
Chapter 1: The Connection Circle
1. Joemin Zavala
Flowers formed a boundary in the snow around the six-foot-tall red gumball machine, where it had happened.
The gumball machine stood bolted to the sidewalk outside an elementary school. The school’s unassuming entrance peeked out from between two downtown shops: a neighborhood hardware store and a boutique that sold handmade soaps. The block often smelled faintly of wood chips and essential oils. Though not today.
The gumball machine’s glass globe had a crack in it. A rust-colored substance glued butter-yellow strands to the epicenter of the crack, like a morbid bandaid.
Some of the boundary flowers placed around the gumball machine were white roses standing upright in the packed frozen snow. Someone had poked them into the crust, like posts in a fence. The gesture had been made recently—maybe by one of the neighbors standing by. Joemin could still smell the crisp sweetness of roses on the evening’s silent breeze.
The tiny rose sentinels attempted to keep safe the bouquets of fresh red and pink carnations and yellow dahlias that lay piled high on the sidewalk around the gumball machine’s red base. But the flowers were no match for boots.
Footprints crushed most of the cellophane wrappings glinting under the streetlight. Tread patterns muddied the handwritten notes and the stuffed animals, broke the glass votive candles and the framed photographs, crumpled the sign that named the deceased.
Danielle Fatari.
Joemin had seen his fair share of roadside memorials in his twelve years, before moving to St. Brigid, Kildare, but he had never once seen one trampled.
The sight was uncanny.
Straddling his bike, one foot on the pavement and the other on a pedal, he stared at the defiled memorial like it was all a trick and if he just kept looking it would correct itself.